


Or Not To Share

by MyRubicon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: And I Mean Not At All, Background Future Mystrade, Fits In Between Chapters 8. and 9., Gen, Greg Doesn't Like This Housekeeper, Job Interview, This Belongs To The Story "His Share"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-10-11 06:45:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17441924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyRubicon/pseuds/MyRubicon
Summary: Hi, everyone! This is the original Chapter 9. from my fic "His, Share", and fits in between Chapter 8. (no surprises there) and the new Chapter 9.I've taken it out because I think it doesn't contribute enough to the main story, but I had fun writing it, and it also serves to flesh out Greg's character, so here it is. Unfortunately, there's no Mycroft in it. You've been warned. :) I hope you still enjoy it, though.





	Or Not To Share

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, everyone! This is the original Chapter 9. from my fic "His, Share", and fits in between Chapter 8. (no surprises there) and the new Chapter 9.  
> I've taken it out because I think it doesn't contribute enough to the main story, but I had fun writing it, and it also serves to flesh out Greg's character, so here it is. Unfortunately, there's no Mycroft in it. You've been warned. :) I hope you still enjoy it, though.

In the evening, Anthea, Mycroft's PA, sent over a candidate for the open housekeeper position in the house that Greg and Mycroft were now sharing. Since Mycroft was still on his business trip, it fell to Greg to conduct the interview. The woman had survived the vetting, so he supposed she was alright by security standards. Anthea had already assured him that she was also a competent cook and cleaner, and had heavily intimated that Mr Holmes trusted her choice. Greg had still insisted on a personal interview, at least a short one. The woman was going to live under his roof, after all, and he at least wanted to find out whether they would feel comfortable enough around each other. He got the distinct impression that Anthea – or whatever her name really was – was annoyed at him for his insistence, but this was the place were he was going to bloody live and sleep, and so she could take her opinions and stuff them up where the sun didn't shine. He had put that in less crass but still very clear words, and she had grudgingly acquiesced. Perhaps his day had been just a trifle long and frustrating, and perhaps he should make his harshness up to her – if the housekeeper made the cut.

She didn't.

Ms Scott was a pretty, very feminine blonde in her middle to late twenties, and she wasn't dressed inappropriately, but something about the way she looked at him and moved put Greg more than slightly on edge. After the handshake, she held on just a little too long, her smile was just a tad too inviting. Already feeling subtly uncomfortable, Greg politely asked her inside. She had rung the doorbell at the former servant's entrance down on the lower ground floor, and she looked around quickly, shrewdly, her eyes taking in the alarm system next to the door. Greg led her quickly inside, past the open door to his north-facing living room where he was still busy unpacking his books and sorting them to his liking. He had decided not to let himself be rushed; he wanted to place his comfort reading, antique or new, placed to his absolute satisfaction. Most of his books would go into the shared library he and Mycroft would be setting up in the former dining room across the hallway and next to the kitchen; Mycroft and he had decided that they could both eat in the generous breakfast area in the kitchen, and if greater formality were required – for Mycroft, probably not for Greg – his representation rooms on the ground floor would do.

Ms Scott measured up the tasteful, restrained antique furniture, then let her disapproving gaze linger on the cardboard box filled with books visible through the open door.

“I have just moved in a few days ago,” Greg informed her in a neutral tone.

“Shall I clear these away, then?” she asked with a too-bright smile.

Greg bristled inwardly. “There is no need for that, Ms Scott,” he replied with an ounce of sternness and no further explanation, and led the way into the kitchen.

“May I offer you some tea?” he politely asked.

Her smile was once again just a touch too intimate. “Oh, you don't have to make tea for me, Mr Lestrade, I can certainly do that – and very well, if I say so myself. I'd be honoured to show you.”

Greg blinked. “I do make rather good tea myself,” he mentioned, stressing the word tea slightly in order to remind her what they were actually talking about, and that he didn't appreciate any attempts at flirtation. He had to hand it to her, she kept up the plausible deniability quite well.

“Oh, nonsense,” she airily replied as she walked over to the electric kettle. “Leave it to me.”

“As you wish,” he mildly said, sat down at the table and promptly served himself from his favourite old earthenware teapot, having brewed his own loose-leaf Darjeeling only a few minutes ago. “Do make yourself comfortable,” he drily added, his hand gesture encompassing the entire kitchen. Then he put a dash of milk and sugar in his own tea, sipped appreciatively and watched her open the cupboards to look for the tea leaves, another teapot and the crockery.

She stiffened a little when she realised that she had overplayed her hand. Far from acquiescing to her, he continued to do exactly as he pleased, calmly watching her make a fool out of herself. He didn't need to be Sherlock to identify the embarrassment and pique in her body language even as she carried on as if everything were going according to her wishes.

Once she had filled and switched on the kettle, she went looking for milk and made a disapproving noise as she found Mycroft's fridge empty of all perishables.

“Mr Holmes is currently absent,” Greg drily replied. “You may help yourself to my milk, though.” He casually motioned towards the small cream jug on the table in front of him.

He'd chosen the words “help yourself” deliberately, and watched her stiffen again ever so slightly as her next little imposition was highlighted.

She moved over to the table and raised her eyebrows at his old teapot with the perfect patina that he favoured and that he had no intention of giving up, least of all at the whim of a woman whom he had begun to dislike rather firmly. “Certainly, Mr Lestrade. Oh, what a... quaint teapot.”

He smiled blandly. “I'm fond of it,” he mildly said.

“Do you have another one?” she asked, a bit piqued.

He shrugged carelessly. “Perhaps. Why don't you have a look around?”

She straightened her spine, her smile still too wide and now a bit strained, and went over to the cupboards again. Greg leaned back in his comfortable kitchen chair and observed her with a slightly sardonic air.

She finally found another teapot. This one was made of earthenware as well, which seemed to disappoint her, but she chose a tea and set it to steep. As far as he could see, she knew what she was doing, although he found it a bit presumptuous of her to choose Mycroft's Orange Pekoe Ceylon.

Then she moved over to Greg's fridge. “Do you have any fresh lemons?” she asked as she was already opening the door.

“No,” he unapologetically replied.

She cleared her throat uncomfortably but still had a quick look at the inside of the fridge.

“Oh, you poor man, subsisting on takeaway,” she said with a sympathetic smile. “I bet you haven't had a home-cooked meal of decent European food forever. I could make it all better. My former employee called me a goddess in the kitchen.” She tittered again. “Although, of course, I have other skills as well.”

Greg, who had cooked that meal himself the night before and was actually looking forward to warming up his plate of leftover Thai curry that night, narrowed his eyes at her.

“I'm certain,” he said a little uncharitably. “What did your former employer die of again? A heart attack?”

She blinked at him with exaggerated confusion, trying for cute and coming across as brainless to his now rather jaded eyes. “Died?” she asked. “Oh, no, I was simply tired of living in the country. London is so much more interesting, so much more full of life, don't you think?”

Yes, Greg thought to himself, certainly, with all the murders and body parts washed up from the Thames. I wonder what sent you scurrying away from your cushy job. Your employer's wife, perhaps?

“Your tea is about to over-steep,” he informed her.

“Oh!” She exclaimed and quickly moved over to remove the tea leaves. “Thank you, Mr Lestrade.”

Her artificial smile was not returned.

When she was done, Greg motioned for her to sit at the table, and she came over with the freshly brewed tea and a cup, saucer and spoon for herself.

“So,” he calmly said, sipping his own tea and showing no further interest in hers. “Tell me about yourself, Ms Scott.”

And she did, in a flirtatious and effusive manner that he didn't appreciate in the least. She had chosen the seat next to him instead of across the table, and was slowly moving closer to Greg. He regarded her coolly and refused to react. Instead he subtly put his decades of interrogation experience to a good use, drawing her out and making a mental note of every damning point that came to light, often without her noticing. When he was done, she wasn't flirting any more, though, and looked slightly disturbed.

“Thank you for the interview, Ms Scott,” he politely said as he rose from the table.

“Aren't you going to show me around?” she asked, rallying and looking up at him through her eyelashes. He was quite certain they were dyed.

“Not today,” he smoothly replied. “I still have other interviews to conduct, but Mr Holmes' PA will soon inform you of our follow-up meeting.”

She thanked him prettily and permitted him to lead her back to the lower ground floor entrance. On the way out, she was looking at the hallway that led to both the utility room and the vault, and Greg had an unpleasant feeling about it.

He said his goodbyes politely enough and then went and defiantly microwaved his unfairly maligned Indian food. On a whim, he preserved a bit of the tea she had made, determined to hand it in to one of the lab assistants for analysis; then he poured the rest down the drain.

 

After dinner, he called Anthea.

“I'm not employing Ms Scott,” he flatly said.

“Aren't you?” she asked with a hint of exasperation.

“She's a tart,” he curtly replied, his earlier anger resurfacing. “She doesn't respect personal boundaries and is presumptuous and overly curious, especially about the location of Mr Holmes' vault and the alarm system next to the lower ground floor entrance. Also, she's far too fond of innuendo and gives every impression of a gold digger. I wouldn't be able to sleep in peace with that two-legged piranha in the house and just a staircase away from my room and my case files. Besides, you were supposed to have vetted her.”

“What do you mean by that?” Anthea asked, a little irritated.

“Scott is clearly not her real name,” Greg coolly replied. “She's good, better than the usual amateur, but she can't stand up to a professional interrogation, especially if she doesn't notice there is one going on. I've pried enough information out of her to identify the place of her former employment, and I'm certain there was a crime involved. It might just be petty theft, embezzlement or fraud, it might be blackmail or something worse. Please keep her phone number and current address at hand; I suspect there will be an arrest soon. I've told her that she will be contacted for another meeting, so she should stick around. Although she's probably noticed that I didn't exactly take a liking to her.”

“Thank you for informing me, DCI Lestrade,” she crisply said. “In case you are correct, I do owe you an apology.”

Greg sighed tiredly. “It's not an apology I'm after. I just want you to find out what happened. You don't even have to tell me, just make sure that it can't happen again.”

“Of course,” she replied, a little stiffly.

Greg went on, “Mr Holmes mentioned that any housekeeper would have to be vetted according to the standards of MI5, and for good reasons, I suppose. I've just gone through such a vetting myself, and they've talked to everyone in my family, including my four-year-old niece. They only didn't talk to my nephew because his favourite word right now is “no!” and he calls me “Unca Egg”. By the way, my parents were not amused. My friends were interviewed, several constables, my DIs, Superintendent Allan and the Chief Super himself. As far as I know, they even talked to some of tenants in my old building, my baker, my hairdresser and my ex-wife. These spooks went over my life with a fine comb; they would have found out if a bunny rabbit had died under my care in my childhood or if I'd ever nicked a chocolate bar. How did something of that magnitude not register with Ms Scott?”

“You underwent a more thorough vetting, Detective Chief Inspector,” Anthea calmly admitted.

For a moment, Greg was silent. Then he asked in a deadly quiet tone, “And why would that be the case, Miss Whatever-your-name-really-is?”

“Detective Chief Inspector,” Anthea replied, then stopped.

“Do go on,” Greg grimly prompted. “It's just getting interesting.”

“I cannot tell you, I'm afraid.”

“You cannot tell me. Oh, well, then I shall just have to be content with the fact that of course I had to undergo an intrusive and frankly humiliating vetting process,” he went on, his voice becoming successively louder, “without any warning, I might add, and without any chance to prepare my family. And I had to undergo a much more thorough vetting because I live under the same roof as Mr Holmes, than a woman who, wait, is going to live under the same roof as Mr Holmes, too, cook his meals and dust his top secret office?”

“I'm really sorry, but I can't tell you,” she maintained, her voice soft. This was as genuinely apologetic as he had ever heard the woman, but then, she was an ice-cold professional and probably a superb liar and actress as well.

“Be that as it may,” he said, bringing himself under control again with a wrench, although his anger was still smouldering inside him. “Please be so kind as to forward Ms Scott's address and phone number to my work email at the Yard before eight tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, Detective Chief Inspector,” she calmly replied, “I'll also run a thorough background check on her from my end and send you the data if I come up with anything useful.”

“Thank you. Also, I'd appreciate it if the alarm system in the house could be changed or at least modified; I didn't like the way she was studying the panel next to the door.”

“I'll see to it immediately,” was the crisp and respectful reply.

“And do you perhaps have other potential housekeepers with insufficient vetting lined up for me to interview?” he asked, not quite keeping the sarcasm out of his voice.

“There is another candidate,” she replied after a pause, sounding slightly shaken. “I'll personally run a second background check on her. However, she may not be the housekeeper you want.”

“May I ask why?” he enquired with cool politeness.

“Well, Mrs Chowdhury is...”

“From an Indian cultural background?” Greg finished after her pause grew a little long. “Is Mr Holmes biased against immigrants?”

“Well, no, but she mostly cooks Indian cuisine and traditional English fare.”

“Sounds good to me,” Greg rebelliously declared. “Can she clean, do the wash and is she reasonably fluent in English?”

“Of course,” Anthea replied, a little insulted.

“What about Mr Holmes? Do you think he would accept Mrs Chowdhury work standards and personality?”

“Well, mostly, yes, but he while does appreciate both traditional Indian and English fare, he also enjoys a wide variety of cuisines and has a particular fondness for French food,” she replied.

Greg shrugged. “I can cook French food well enough myself,” he said off-handedly. “And there's always ordering in or eating out for the variety.”

Anthea chose not to challenge him on that point. “And she's a little advanced in age.”

“A pensioner? Well, I suppose she wouldn't be up to all those stairs, then.”

“No, certainly not, she's not even fifty and rather wiry, but... not exactly a beauty.”

Greg frowned. “Why would her age be a problem, then? And her outward appearance?”

“Isn't it?” Anthea asked, her tone strangely intent.

“Of course not,” Greg replied, a little puzzled. “As long as she does her job, is a reasonably friendly person, doesn't throw me out of the kitchen with condescending looks, damage my books or give off creepy stalker vibes, I should be fine.”

Surprisingly, Anthea chuckled. “Creepy stalker vibes? Are you referring to Ms not-Scott?”

Greg grinned, involuntarily caught up in the suddenly improved mood, but he still replied seriously, “That woman is a human predator, Anthea, and I really meant it when I said that I wouldn't feel safe with her in the house. Honestly, she looked disappointed that there is no highly expensive china in daily use in the kitchen, and she was sizing up everything she managed to lay her beady eyes on with price tags in her eyes. And that batting of eyelashes and brainless titter... Ugh. And she was constantly invading my personal space. She made me feel on edge in several different ways, none of them good, and I've learned to trust my instincts over the years. I washed my hands right after she left.”

“DCI Lestrade,” Anthea said, a smile in her voice as well as contrition, “I _am_ sorry. I'll do my best to find out what happened and make sure it doesn't happen again.”

“You can't say fairer than that, I suppose,” Greg said as he exhaled and let go of the last vestiges of his anger. “If she passes the check and you think Mr Holmes would accept her, do send Mrs Chowdhury around, would you? I'd like to meet her.”

“I will, Detective Chief Inspector,” she said. “Have a good evening.”

“And you as well,” he replied and rang off.

 

So, Mycroft Holmes himself had him vetted to an insanely high standard. That indicated that Greg was, or could possibly be, of much more importance than a housekeeper, although she cleaned his study and saw top secret files that Greg would never clap his eyes on. More important than someone who simply lived in the same house as the illustrious Mr Holmes. More important...

Yes, Greg would certainly speak about this with Mycroft, but he didn't feel angry any more. Instead, he suddenly felt absurdly hopeful.

He walked around the house, engaging the security measures as Mycroft had shown him, and smiled. Perhaps he was a fool to hope, but perhaps... perhaps he was not.

 

 


End file.
